


their tree

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: 12 Days of Ficmas 2018 [11]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, that's it that's all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:58:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17075555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: For the prompt: "You hate Christmas because you’ve never had a good one. So I go all out to make this the best Christmas for you"





	their tree

**Author's Note:**

> hbd anna! hope you like it ♥ i came out of my ficmas stupor to write this for you, because i wanted you to have it on your birthday ♥

She wakes him up before dawn, which is exactly the opposite of when Murphy likes to be awake. 

But Emori has a sleepy smile on her face, this muted expression of excitement she gets when she can’t help herself from being happy, and Murphy can’t ever tell her no when she’s like this. 

The apartment is freezing, has been since heat got shut off in late November, so they jump between discarded heaps of clothes from the bed to the bathroom. Their eyes are still wincing from the fluorescent light over the sink when they brush their teeth, and the water in the tap is even colder than the room. But Emori’s laugh rings like a bell when she’s whirling around their room, trying not to step on cold floor, and Murphy will swear he’s not, but he kinda feels like smiling. 

She heats up a kettle on the stove and dumps a four packets of powdered hot chocolate into a thermos and Murphy wants to tell her that their teeth will be rotted out by the time they’re thirty, but he doesn’t. He just waits for the kettle to boil while she’s putting on wool socks, and then fills the thermos with the scalding water. 

It’s still dark when they make it outside, their breath on puffs of air against the freezing night. The car us so drafty that the windows might as well be rolled down, but Emori has her hands curled around the thermos, and that’s as warm as Murphy needs to be, knowing she’s good. She doesn’t tell him where to drive, just the turns to take, and as the sun rises, they leave the city. 

They drive for a while before Murphy remembers it’s Christmas. 

It’s not his favorite day, just a reminder of what he doesn’t have, and what he took from the world. His mother had loved Christmas, and look where it got her. Em loves it, but she usually tries to subdue that for him; he looks over at her in the morning light. 

The sun slants across her face and her eyes are half-closed, shielding her from the bright light. Her hair tumbles over her shoulders, barely brushed, her face soft and unguarded. She’s unreal, she must be ethereal, but he sees her shiver at a gust of wind, and no she’s here, she’s real. She’s his. 

He reaches a hand over, and she takes it without thinking, like breathing. His hand is there, she should hold it, a simple motion that just shows that they’re home for each other. 

Turn left, she tells him, and he does. 

The trees are getting thicker, and the sunrise is dimmed by the tall mountains. Murphy’s just starting to wonder if they’ll have to stop for gas when she tells him to pull over. 

It’s one of those state-mandated view points, the kind you drive by and wonder if anyone ever stops there. This morning, they do.  

A snow plow came through a couple hours ago, maybe yesterday, and the white snow on the side of the mountain is muddied as it gets closer to the asphalt. But Emori walks past it, the thermos in her hands and a backpack he didn’t know she’d brought swung over her shoulders. 

They don’t push through the snow for long, just until they can’t hear the road anymore. There’s a bit of a clearing, or it was a clearing, but now it’s covered in snow. Em isn’t bothered; she drops the backpack then pulls out a trash bag drops it on the snow, then unfolds it. Turns out it’s five trash bags, taped together, and she spreads a blanket on top of them, the soft wool protected from the snow. 

She gestures for him to come over and he does. 

Out of the bag, she pulls a cord of battery-operated fairy lights, and understanding dawns. But he follows along with it, helps her untangle the mess. Then he stands on one side of a particularly tired-looking tree, takes the lights when she hands them to his left hand, wraps the cord around his side of the tree, passes them off with his right. They make it about a third of the way down the tree and they run out. For a moment, Em looks disappointed, and Murphy hates that, so he flips on the lights. They sprint on, bright and shining, and he sees them reflected in his love’s eyes. She’s smiling again. 

She takes his hand and leads him over to the blanket. They get a lot of snow on it when they try to sit, but they manage, and she hands him the thermos. It’s cold by now; the drive had been long, but he still drinks it. Chews the bits of powder that didn’t dissolve. Above the tree, above the mountain, the sun peaks out in earnest. Before him, their tree is sparkling; around them, there’s no sound but the trees. Next to him, Emori scoots a little closer, rests her head on his shoulder, and John thinks that maybe Christmas isn’t so bad after all. 


End file.
